


Of Beasts, Brawls and Bottles

by Elendiliel



Series: The Bard, the Witcher and the Apothecary [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Action, Bar Room Brawl, Empathy, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:34:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27593507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elendiliel/pseuds/Elendiliel
Summary: Life for a village apothecary could never be called dull, but it doesn't usually involve dealing with victims of monster attacks. Unfortunately for one such person, "usually" is currently the operative word. Luckily for her and her neighbours, where there are monsters, sooner or later there will be monster hunters.
Series: The Bard, the Witcher and the Apothecary [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2017163
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning, which will apply to all my fics for this series: I've only seen the TV show, and have a tendency to pick up names, places and concepts and bend them to my will. If anything goes against wider canon, my only excuse is incomplete data.

El knew it wasn’t going to be a normal day even before the white-haired man barged through the front door of her apothecary’s shop. She’d sensed him a street away – well, more accurately, she’d sensed the younger man he was carrying. Even unconscious, to her he seemed to be screaming in pain. _That,_ unfortunately, had become quite normal these last few weeks – or was it months? She was already reaching for the salve she’d need as they entered. These days, she always had a good stock of it to hand. No, it was the uninjured one that was out of the ordinary. The way she sensed people didn’t translate well into everyday language, but he felt like a steel sword among wooden ones, or someone speaking Elder when everyone else was using the common tongue. Curiosity would have to wait, though. She had a patient to save first.

“Put him down there,” she ordered, indicating her treatment bench, as she washed her hands. “And take his shirt off, if you can.” She could see that said garment was soaked in blood and badly torn. It usually went for the chest. The cuts were deep, she already knew, and its claws were laced with toxins. He’d probably have been dead by then if she hadn’t automatically put a metaphorical finger on the unravelling knot that was his life. (Again with the untranslatable sensations…)

The patient’s companion hesitated for a moment before cutting away the ruined cloth and pulling it free of the wounds, none too gently. Like her, he’d reasoned that a little extra pain now was nothing when his friend’s life was in the balance. (Unlike her, he didn't know who was actually experiencing said pain.) That would make it easier to apply the salve. Moving over to them, she assessed the damage with a far too practised eye, prioritising the various injuries.

“Hold him still,” she told the upright half of the pair. “When I start applying this, his body will think it’s in a lot of pain, and thrash about too much for comfort. His mind won’t notice, though.” He hesitated again, and she sensed some discomfort. His emotions still felt strange to her, muted and somehow off-key. No time to consider that now. His friend’s life was slipping away. Shock treatment, then. She met his eyes, something she rarely did so early in an acquaintance, and let command edge her voice. “Do you want him to live or not? _Do it!_ ”

He complied, applying firm pressure to the other man’s upper arms, pinning them to the sides of his chest. That would do. As she started to treat the most severe wounds, she could feel the patient’s muscles responding to this fresh assault, trying to shake her off, but his companion managed to hold his upper body still enough that she got through the whole procedure without a mistake or more than one or two bruises to either party. A record. Tension of which she hadn’t been aware drained away as she finished, knowing that he was out of danger even before she heard his breathing shift to a calm, slow rhythm. She relinquished her hold on his life-thread, but not on the pain he’d still be feeling for some time, or would be without her gift.

“You can let go now,” she told her temporary assistant. “He’s going to be fine. Just needs a bit of rest.” He released his grip halfway through her first sentence and stood back a little, face impassive, emitting relief, gratitude, awkwardness, a touch of guilt, curiosity and fading shock. Why did people have to be so _complicated_? She looked at him properly for the first time. _Definitely_ not an average customer. She’d never seen anyone with eyes that shade of yellow before, for a start. Well-muscled and well-armed. Wolf medallion around his neck. Dressed all in black. Shirt torn and stained, but only with his friend’s blood. Must have been faster. Out of habit, and curiosity at his unusually calm reaction to her appearance, she used another of her gifts to look at herself through his eyes.

The physical aspects she already knew. Long, unruly hair that had chosen to be burnished bronze that day, poorly constrained into a bun by a battalion of hairpins. Ivory-pale skin dusted with freckles. Strong features that could be called sculpted, but the sculptor must have been an apprentice. Practical blue dress that hid both figure (such as it was) and musculature. Slim hands with dexterous-looking fingers, scarred here and there where her knives had slipped as she made up her remedies or she’d got too close to a flame. The upright bearing of one who knew her own value, but tried not to overestimate it. The only really interesting point was her eyes. The irises were gold, not golden-brown or witcher-yellow but true gold, like tiny coins. Instead of whites, she had silvers. Both parts even had a metallic sheen that could make people think her blind. (Actually, she sometimes thought blindness would have been better than her betwixt-and-between vision.) She noted which aspects the man was examining most closely. Not the ones most men found interesting, thankfully. He was curious about her eyes, and what they might indicate. Her hands, too, and what little could be seen of her arms and shoulders – not unexpected, for a fighting man. And he wanted to know what someone so young (she was twenty-five, but looked nearer twenty) with the self-possession normally found in old, usually wealthy or noble families was doing running a shop. (In point of fact, while her family’s recorded history went back to the Conjunction of the Spheres, wealth and nobility had largely passed them by.)

She returned to her own awareness before he noticed that she was trespassing. She didn’t know whether he _would_ notice (few if any did), but wasn’t willing to take the chance. “What do I owe you?” Pleasant voice, deep, rough, with an accent that was a little of everything. She named her standard price, enough to cover the salve’s ingredients, which he paid without comment, and added, “Might I know your name?”

“Geralt of Rivia.” She should have guessed. The White Wolf. There couldn’t be anyone left north of Ebbing who hadn’t heard the ballads. She kept her face and tone friendly-neutral as she replied. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Electra. El for short.”

“Electra, like electrum?” She was impressed. Not many people made the connection between the silver-gold alloy and her full name. “Yes, that’s right. Can’t escape these blessed eyes.”

“You’re a mutation?” There was no hint of judgement in his voice, or anything else about him. She wouldn’t have expected any, not from a witcher. All the same, his phrasing ruffled her feathers.

“I _have_ a mutation. A natural one, believe it or not. Look, why don’t we discuss this over a drink? I was about to close up for lunch in any case. Once your friend wakes up, I’ll take you to the tavern.” That seemed to suit him. The salve she’d applied to her patient had dried enough that she could start cleaning away the excess blood, while Geralt at her direction hunted out a clean shirt from the stock she kept for such occasions. Just as she finished her task, the young man stirred, opened his eyes and, to his credit, didn’t quite scream at seeing a metal-eyed woman leaning over him.

“It’s all right.” Did Geralt even know how to express emotion? “She’s a friend.”

“Electra, at your service.” She gave the still-startled man a warm smile, avoiding his gaze in a not-rude way. She’d had plenty of practice at that.

“Jaskier.” Of course. The White Wolf’s faithful companion, and author of many a ballad. Not surprising, then, that he was recovering from the shock of her appearance relatively fast. He’d seen worse.

It took another quarter-hour to administer a tonic to counter the effects of blood loss and fresh clothes to Jaskier and for her to shut the shop, leaving a note for any customers, but once those were dealt with they made their way to the village tavern, Jaskier only swaying a little. El bought the first round and a light meal while the others found them a table, and they settled down for a serious conversation.


	2. Chapter 2

“So, what brings you to this neck of the woods?”, El asked. “Not our local beastie, I imagine.” She’d have heard if anyone had hired outside help, and the universal reaction to Geralt’s appearance in the tavern’s other customers was one of suspicion and surprise. Besides, she didn’t think Geralt would have let Jaskier get so badly hurt if he’d been expecting trouble. She was still having a little trouble reading him, but the possessive nobody-hurts-my-friend affection he felt – against his will – for the bard wasn’t hard to miss.

“Just passing through.” Geralt cautiously sampled the tavern’s ale. It seemed to pass muster. “How long has the graveir been troubling you?”

“Oh, so that’s what it’s called. Two months or so? Just turned up out of nowhere. It doesn’t seem that interested in humans, unless they get too close or it’s very hungry. You must have been unlucky. But it’s nibbling away at our livestock, and making the forest paths unsafe for travellers. Nobody leaves the village alone now. I must have patched up a score of its human victims, and there’ve been some that couldn’t get help in time.” She took a sip of her ale to buy time to compose herself. “There’s been talk of sending for a professional, but around here decisions on that scale can take days, sometimes weeks. Fate might have got bored and sent you to us.” She noticed his annoyance as she alluded to fate. It seemed to be a touchy subject for him.

“I’m a witcher, not a knight. I don’t work for free, and you can’t afford me.” It was a statement of perceived fact, but again it touched her confounded pride. “What makes you say that?”

“That dress has seen better days. You under-charged me for helping Jaskier. And you didn’t pay in coin for these.” He had sharp eyes, clearly, and an equally sharp mind.

“I’ve never seen the point of new clothes when my current ones are structurally sound. I charged you exactly what the ingredients for the salve and tonic cost me. Most of them grow locally. And I have a tab here.”

“I can imagine. Payment for services rendered?” She nodded. “The innkeeper’s son had a bad fever a while back. Serious, but quite straightforward to cure. That’s how things usually work here. We don’t have much use for coin amongst ourselves.”

“Just for outsiders?” She nodded again, her mouth full of bread. “You’ve adapted well, for someone so far from home.”

He must have recognised her accent. Redanian, still with the distinctive edge of Oxenfurt even after all this time. It stood out like a sore thumb here in rural Kaedwen. “I’ve always been a fast learner. Had to be. People like me have two choices: fit in and make ourselves useful, or keep moving. I suppose you know that better than I do.” She glanced at his eyes, drawing attention to her own.

She sensed what would have been a sympathetic smile on anyone else. “And you chose to fit in?”

“As best I can. I’m never going to pass for normal, and it seems ungrateful to deny my gifts enough to try. At least this close to Ban Ard “normal” is a somewhat broader category than in most of Redania.”

“Why did you leave home? I understand Oxenfurt is more tolerant than most places.”

“Stay in academia my whole life? No fear! I’ve always known that that wasn’t my calling.” Again with the inward flinch. Anything to do with predestination irritated him. “Once I was qualified, I travelled around for a time, looking for somewhere that both wanted and accepted me. I’ve been here three years now. Did a year’s apprenticeship with my predecessor before he retired. This is a good place. Everyone knows everyone, and we look out for each other. The only fights we usually get are in here around closing time, and not much gets broken. The normal collection of feuds and rivalries, of course, but they’re manageable. And most people don’t mind someone who’s a bit out of the ordinary, as long as we’re discreet and use- oh dear.”

“Oh dear” was putting it mildly. Jaskier, bored with their conversation and in need of another drink, had wandered over to the bar. Focused on Geralt, El hadn’t been paying attention to him, and now regretted it. He’d managed to fall into conversation with a few of the local hotheads, the ones who’d tried to make life difficult for her when she’d arrived, not realising that she’d dealt with that kind of thing since childhood. Insults just rolled off her now. Not, it seemed, off Jaskier, not when they were directed at Geralt, or so she guessed. As she watched, the duel of words became a physical punch-up, with Jaskier as the apparent antagonist, trying to make up in ferocity for what he lacked in strength, speed or skill. She and Geralt were on their feet and heading for what was now a full-scale brawl before either quite realised what they were doing. Geralt’s attention was all on getting his friend out of there before he got hurt, and he didn’t care whom he injured in the process. El knew she could make life easier for all parties. This wasn’t the first such fracas she’d broken up, or even the twentieth. The process was quite routine now. Identify the main sources of trouble, fight her way in to them and do her best to hold them still while her honey-and-steel voice and more unusual gifts did their work, bringing a measure of calm and sanity back. The only modification she needed to make now was the path she followed through the crowd, anticipating where Geralt was going to go and clearing space for him to reach his companion without too many problems for anyone. He slung the now slightly punch-drunk and very keyed-up bard across his shoulder, the younger man still giving an earful to his opponents even as she subdued the last of them. As generally happened on these occasions, an embarrassed silence spread across the room as they made their way back to their seats, gradually giving way to the normal buzz of conversation. El checked that everyone was all right. Nothing worse than a few bruises and some battered pride. They’d been in time.

Jaskier was taking his sweet time to calm down, though, and she could tell that Geralt was annoyed with him. Before any arguments could get started, and out of habit rather than sense, she laid a hand on each of their arms, using the contact to transfer a feeling of peace and tranquillity that countered their anger. She only realised what she’d done when she saw that Geralt was looking at her with the first strong emotions she’d seen, rather than sensed, on him. He was surprised and intrigued.

“That’s your mutation? You’re a peace-weaver?” She’d seen the term in old texts, but never heard it used before, certainly not as naturally as Geralt did.

“Part of it, or more accurately an application thereof. I sense and alter emotions. I can take away pain, calm fear and anger, spot trouble before it really gets started – usually. It’s a good talent to have in my profession, but so easy to misuse. And people generally don’t like being manipulated, even in a good cause.”

Jaskier had put two and two together. There was more between his ears than one might suppose. “When you say take away pain – do you mean it goes away completely, or do you just put it somewhere else?” He’d made the connection with the still-healing cuts on his chest, and the fact that they weren’t hurting him.

“I put it somewhere else. Myself, usually. Oh, don’t look like that. I’ve built up quite a tolerance over the years, and it’s useful to know exactly how a patient is feeling. Your injuries are mending nicely now.” Pain, hunger, thirst, cold, heat – they were just data to her.

“Good to know.” He applied himself to the nearest mug of ale, which happened to be hers. She decided not to mention it. He was impressed by her, and still a little scared. She noted how he was looking at the other women in the room, and was glad he didn’t see _her_ that way. _Men!_

“And you’re a good fighter.” Geralt hadn’t only had eyes for his friend, then. “Why haven’t you taken on the graveir yourself?”

“Because if I get myself killed, who’s going to patch up everyone else? And I’m not about to ask another person to risk their life to help me. My persuasion gift has a mind of its own, and I’d never forgive myself if I talked someone into something and it resulted in their death.”

“Which is why you haven’t asked me directly.” Sharp as his sword, this one. “All the same, I think we can come to an arrangement.” He’d found a vial of black liquid somewhere on his person and slid it over to her. “Can you replicate this?”

She picked up the vial and examined it. Removed the cork and held it beneath her nose. “I think so. I can recognise some ingredients straight away, and the rest shouldn’t be hard to identify. What is it?”

“It enhances my abilities. I’ve never found a reliable source outside Kaer Morhen. If you can identify its components and replicate it, I’ll kill your graveir for you.”

“ _We’ll_ kill it.” El’s mind was already racing with possibilities, but she could still spare enough brain-space to bargain. “My home, my patients, my responsibility. ‘Sides, I don’t want it to suffer. It’s not aggressive unless provoked; it just needs to eat. And any treatment you need afterwards I’ll provide free of charge.”

“We’ll kill it.” She’d expected objections, probably along the lines of “no place for a woman”. He’d known some strong women in the past, then. “And I’ll try to make it quick.”

They sealed the deal with a handshake, before finishing their drinks and heading out to their next tasks. Geralt needed to find his horse, Roach, who’d mercifully been tied up some way away when her humans were attacked as they stopped for a rest just outside the village. Jaskier and El returned to her shop to start work on her half of the arrangement. Jaskier was still not up to full strength, so he’d be staying behind while the others fought the graveir. That seemed to be normal for him – stay at a safe distance, then write the ballad afterwards. Sensible.


	3. Chapter 3

“So, you live here alone?” Familiarity was rendering El less intimidating to Jaskier, unfortunately. Better shut him down fast. “Yes.”

“No men in your life?”

“If you mean what I think you mean, no, I don’t have time for any of that. Even if any men were interested in me, which they aren’t, thankfully.”

“Really? I mean, you’re quite good-looking, apart from the –“ He broke off, seeing the hole he’d dug for himself. She filled it in.

“Scary metal eyes? It’s kind of you to say so, but I _do_ own a mirror. And I know how other people see me. All the time, if I’m not careful. It’s one of my abilities, and one I’d rather not have. Now, do you mind if we change the subject?”

“I can see why Geralt likes you. Are you two related?”

“Not as far as I know. You think he likes me?” She still didn’t have a firm grip on Geralt’s emotions, but Jaskier had known him for years and presumably understood him better than just about anyone.

“Well, more than he likes most people. You’ve seen what he’s like. You should join us. We need someone like you, and Geralt needs –“ Another hole. Seriously, did he have a tongue or a shovel?

“A woman in his life? I had the impression that there already was one.” Love tangles were a steady part of her job. She specialised in calming infusions and a listening ear. The patterns became easy to spot pretty quickly.

“Yennefer.” Jaskier shuddered. “She’s a sorcerer. Very scary.” He didn’t want to go into details, something that in the talkative bard spoke volumes in and of itself.

“A good match, then. Thank you for the offer, but no. I can’t leave my patients. Now, mind giving me a hand with this?” While they’d been talking, she’d started to break down a sample of Geralt’s potion into its constituent parts. This was a part of her trade she loved, but rarely got to practise. The base and more common ingredients were simple enough, but there were some components that would have foxed her without the extra training she’d done at Oxenfurt, or the private arrangement she had with a friend at Ban Ard. There, that was the lot, she hoped. She gave Jaskier a list of requirements and asked him to gather them from her stores, while she calculated the relative quantities. A misstep here could be fatal. She made sure to triple-check everything before even getting her scales out.

Geralt came back just as she was putting the finishing touches to her first attempt, wearing black studded-leather armour, leading a brown mare, whom he tied up outside, and with a lute slung across his back. It looked faintly ridiculous there, but she knew he wouldn’t appreciate her pointing this out. Jaskier was overjoyed to be reunited with his instrument, and insisted on making sure that it hadn’t been damaged by means of a loud rendition of “Toss A Coin To Your Witcher”. It could have been worse, she supposed.

Geralt was more interested in her potion. “Is that it?” He reached for the bottle, and she pushed his hand away. “Just my first try. I want to check that I’ve done it correctly. If not, the _best_ outcome is that it doesn’t work.”

He accepted this with little grace, and waited impassively as she put a sample of her own creation through the same process as the original, comparing it carefully with her notes and memory. Finally satisfied, she corked both bottles and handed them to him, together with a neat copy of the receipt. He tucked them away in a pocket and, at her invitation, took a seat. She’d fulfilled her half of the bargain; now they had to plan his half.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify: "receipt" is an older form of "recipe". I know I'm a bit patchy on period detail (no worse than the show's writers, I hope), but some things I can't resist throwing in.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As may be evident by process of elimination, this is where things get messy. I've tried to keep the description brief, and I don't think it's any worse than the show itself, but if I need to increase the rating or add extra tags please let me know ASAP.

It was painfully obvious that Geralt didn’t usually share his plans with _anyone_ , if he even made them. If she’d explained an experimental protocol to one of her teachers that badly, she’d have got a well-deserved reprimand. And Jaskier was paying plenty of attention, just for the novelty value. Between them, though, they were eventually on the same page. Geralt remembered well where he and Jaskier had been attacked, and was confident he could track it from there, especially as he’d managed to wound the creature in the process of driving it away.

“It will have gone to ground,” he said, matter-of-factly. “We’ll have to draw it out, and fast. The trail will be much harder to spot after dark.”

“I suppose I’d better be the bait.” El was surprised by how unafraid she felt. “It knows you’re a threat, but it’s never seen me, and I can pass for harmless quite easily.”

“I’d already come to that conclusion.” Jaskier only looked mildly shocked at this cold logic. He knew Geralt. El had the distinct impression that the witcher wouldn’t have suggested this plan were he not certain he could protect her. “When we get close, you try to look like a lost traveller. Get as near to its hiding place as you can, without seeming to look for it. When it goes for you, I’ll be ready.”

“If it doesn’t? Or you’re not?” Once again, the emotionless reasoning was a little unsettling.

“It will. It’s an instinctive reaction for a graveir, especially a wounded, hungry one. How fast are you?”

“Not very. But I do know how to use a quarterstaff, as well as my fists and boots. I can hold my own for a few minutes, I think, but you’d better be there within that time or it’ll be slowed down by my corpse.” Since when had she become so plain-speaking? Geralt was rubbing off on her.

“I will. Now, go and get ready to leave. We’ll lose the light at this rate.” She didn’t need telling twice, vanishing into her living space above the shop long enough to pull a pair of trousers on under her skirt, replace some errant hairpins and find her cloak and staff. The staff was a good weapon for the job in hand, resembling as it did a walking stick. She raced back downstairs and started pulling on her walking boots, instructing Jaskier in how to mind the shop as she did so. Geralt was already outside when she emerged. She could tell that the change of apparel met with his approval. They headed off to pick up the trail at a brisk pace.

“Why did you learn to fight?” Geralt’s question was as much to break the silence as out of curiosity. Was she rubbing off on him, as well? “With your gift, you could avoid it completely.”

“My so-called gift can be more trouble than it’s worth sometimes. I don’t need any more of that than necessary. But anyone can throw a punch with the right training, and I thought it might be fun as well as useful.”

“And the quarterstaff? You didn’t want to learn to use a blade?” Not this again. Fighting men could be dismissive of what was essentially a piece of wood. They didn’t realise how much finesse was involved in simply avoiding entanglement with one’s own limbs, let alone striking one’s opponent effectively.

“I don’t ever want to have to kill, or cause more pain than I must. This is seasoned oak. It’ll stop a sword and break bones, but to kill someone I’d really have to try hard, and I don’t see that happening any time soon.” He accepted this in silence. They’d come to a clearing by the stream that supplied the village’s water. Prime ambush territory, but the only place for a drink and a rest for miles along this road. She could see the signs of a struggle when Geralt pointed them out. It had gone for Jaskier first, intelligent enough to see that Geralt would be too much to handle. He’d responded quickly to his friend’s shouts for help, fast enough to keep it from Jaskier’s throat and other major arteries, but hadn’t killed it immediately, just caused it to flee. His companion’s injuries had taken precedence over the chase. There were two trails leading out of the clearing, Geralt’s prints as he carried Jaskier into the village in search of aid and the graveir’s, marked by deep red blood. Geralt had taken a more circuitous route as he retrieved Roach to avoid obscuring the latter trail, which explained why he’d taken so long. They followed it now, Geralt scouting ahead, El close behind, stretching her senses to the limit in the hope of some advance warning in case of attack.

She should probably have also paid attention to what was in front of her. Geralt’s back was only marginally softer than a stone wall, as she found out when he stopped dead and she didn’t. Rebounding a couple of paces and rubbing her nose, she looked around to see why he’d halted.

“It’s there.” His voice was on the edge of hearing as he indicated a deep patch of undergrowth that, now she looked, could have been piled up by human-like hands. She took his word for it. The blood trail was faint by that point and her eyesight had never been good. She knew the plan. The creature hadn’t eaten all day. If it was going after humans, that meant it hadn’t found any livestock. Apparently it didn’t like horses, or at least saddled and bridled horses, which was good news for Roach. A lost, apparently unarmed human practically tripping over its den would be irresistible.

Geralt moved off into the trees, more quietly than his build would suggest was possible. She carried on, not bothering to stay silent, which went against the grain for someone so used to concealment. It took all her self-control not to tense up as she used her _other_ senses to try to work out when it would attack.

 _Now!_ She swung her staff into a diagonal position across her chest, just in time. One claw raked her left forearm, but didn’t go too far into the flesh. It wasn’t necessary. She could already feel the venom burning through her blood. No time to worry about that now. Repelling the creature’s first leap had jarred her shoulders badly, but disorientated it just as severely. Prey wasn’t supposed to be ready to fight. It relied on that first moment of surprise to get its claws in deep, crippling or killing as it chose. Now it had to fight in the open, and El still had her staff and the use of all four limbs. For now. She pressed the advantage, bringing one end of the staff sweeping up towards its jaw before it could recover. She knew the strike had hit home, because she had to remind herself that it wasn’t _her_ jaw she’d just dislocated. Her gift had gone wild, empathising with the graveir as though it were a patient. A patient with toxic claws, a taste for raw flesh and the intelligence of an animal. Less than a wolf. It had killed without knowing what remorse was, and would again, just to survive. She _had_ to kill it, or ensure that it was killed, but she didn’t have to make it suffer.

Time blurred as she blocked and countered, blocked and countered, her arm on fire and the venom spreading through her veins. Where was Geralt?

 _There, at last!_ A white and black streak shot across what remained of her vision just as her knees gave way and she compensated with a desperate upwards swing. Sunset-light on metal gave her barely enough warning to throw her upper body backwards, avoiding the sword that sliced off the graveir’s head in a single sweep. It didn’t suffer. She did. The sharp pain as the blade bit into flesh, the spike of animal-fear as the terrible edge kept going, the abrupt cessation of feeling as the spine and great blood vessels were severed – she knew it all. Keeping her lunch down at that moment constituted a major achievement even before the blood-spray hit her with enough force to send her to the ground, shortly followed by the headless body of the graveir.

She couldn’t unclench her hands from her staff, even to wipe the blood from her eyes. It blinded her completely, but she could feel the corpse’s weight pinning her to the floor, knees bent uncomfortably, staff trapped across her torso. And the liquid flames moving further through her system with every heartbeat. Without warning, the body was lifted off her and Geralt’s hand gripped her right arm, pulling her upright.

“Did it scratch you?” Who else could say that to a blood-covered comrade with so little emotion? Only her gift showed her the undercurrent of concern.

“Left forearm. Not deep. Can walk, I think.” She certainly couldn’t form a coherent sentence. Geralt didn’t take her word for it entirely, putting his left arm around her shoulders as they headed back into the village. She still couldn’t see, but the curiosity and disgust she sensed around them, as well as surprise and gratitude, told her that they had quite an audience. And the way Geralt was walking suggested a heavy load on his right shoulder. The beast’s corpse. Some people would pay well for that. He’d make some coin on this venture after all, and he deserved it.

She knew that they were back at her shop partly by muscle-memory, and partly by Jaskier’s relief and excitement, tempered by disgust at her appearance. Geralt steered her into a chair and she finally managed to wipe the blood from her eyes with her good hand. The other was nearly unusable.

The salve she’d used on Jaskier earlier was still by the treatment bench. She picked it up and started to apply it before either of the others could try. It needed an expert hand. If she hadn’t known before why her patients fought back even while unconscious, she did now. It _burned_. But better that than the venom-fire it counteracted. She leaned back and caught her breath while Jaskier pestered Geralt for details of the hunt. He stonewalled magnificently.

“All right now?” She was getting used to the mismatch between Geralt’s fairly even tone and his submerged but strong emotions. “You still look a mess.”

“I’ll be right as rain in a couple of hours. And whose fault _is_ this? I know you said you’d make it quick, but _I_ could have used some warning.”

“I had complete confidence in you. You’re alive, aren’t you? Our bargain is complete. But I do need another favour.”

“Name it.” He’d saved her life, even if it _had_ been his plan that endangered her in the first place.

“Can you use your influence at the tavern to get us a couple of rooms? I doubt Jaskier is very popular there right now.”

“I’ll try. Give me ten minutes to clean up and change.” She heard the argument break out as she climbed the stairs. It had a well-worn quality to it. Two old friends who’d covered this ground many times before, and expected to do so many more times in the future.

When she came down again, she found a still-annoyed Jaskier waiting for her in the shop and Geralt outside strapping the graveir’s body to Roach, who also seemed to be accustomed to this. Jaskier appealed to her in Geralt’s absence. “Do _you_ like my singing?”

“I can’t answer that on the grounds that I’m practically tone-deaf. Sorry.” It was as diplomatic an answer as she could manage at that moment. He accepted it without comment.

“Have you thought any more about what I suggested earlier?”

“Joining you? Definitely not. I _knew_ what the graveir was feeling as I fought it, and as it died. I can’t go through that on a regular basis and stay even halfway sane. But please drop in any time you’re passing, or send a letter. I suspect I’ll be providing a lot of Geralt’s magic potion from now on, at the very least.”

This, too, was received with understanding silence. Jaskier was more mature, and more intelligent, than he pretended. She wondered why he bothered with the act. Did it attract women? Not _this_ one.

Geralt put his head round the door, still holding Roach’s reins. “Let’s go.” They made their way back to the tavern without another word. El negotiated for three meals, two rooms and stabling for one horse, on the barter system. She was now in the innkeeper’s debt, but what went around, came around. Everything worked out in the end. Geralt and Jaskier turned in early, intending to leave at first light. El returned home in a thoughtful frame of mind. _Definitely_ not a normal day. She suspected she hadn’t seen the last of those two. Oh well. What would be, would be. At least the beastie was gone, and hadn’t suffered unduly. The social consequences would be tricky, but manageable. Blast! She hadn’t asked whether Geralt knew a good way to get graveir blood out of clothes. _That_ would be sticky. A problem for another day, though, like all the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should anyone be actually reading this, feedback of any kind would be most welcome. I'm pretty new to this whole writing malarkey, and even newer to this fandom.


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